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“Where The Wild Things Are ... a poignant, heartfelt journey into the psycho-spiritual mind of a child, transmuting the fears and conflicts that parallel one’s personality into a thematic inner life of magical realizations. A blend of complex metaphors depicting the ethnographic diversity of life’s bittersweet corporeal lessons.”
Yeah, yeah, give me a break. It was a rotten movie. “Where the Wild Things Are” received acclamations by movie critics who apparently own very large Thesauruses and love to speak in iambic pentameter.
With only 10 sentences in the original book, the movie was stretched beyond topological limits to a mind-numbing 100 minutes of psychoanalytic drivel that had adults sleeping and children running out of the theater in tears. The only thing that made it bearable for me was the tertiary butylhydroquinone infused oil dripping over my popcorn.
The book portrayed whimsical pictures of monsters playing in the woods, jumping and leaping about as they danced. It stirred the imagination and brought out the child in all of us. The movie, however, was a typical example of directors on Cipralex. With “sweeping artistic interpretations,” they managed to ruin what should have been a funny silly movie. I’m sure that Freddy Krueger loved it though.
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